


Only Supervillains Use Love as a Weapon

by TheNarator



Series: Only You (Could Do This To Me) [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Heartbreak, M/M, paternal or romantic you decide, you can read it as shippy or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNarator/pseuds/TheNarator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scene in the pipeline from 1x23 "Fast Enough" where Cisco finds out he's a metahuman, told from Cisco's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Supervillains Use Love as a Weapon

Cisco paces in front of Wells' cell in the pipeline, knocking his hands together for lack of anything better to do. All he wants is to get the information he needs and get away, while keeping contact with Wells to a minimum. Getting those papers in for Wells to look at was nerve-wracking enough, and even though he knows there's no way Wells can get out he keeps a comfortable distance from the door to the cell. Well, a more comfortable distance. No amount of distance from Wells could ever be truly comfortable, save only for the distance of time. A few centuries ought to do it.

"Something on your mind Cisco?" Wells asks without looking up from the blueprints. He's using his mentor voice, the one that makes Cisco feel like Wells can see right through him.

"No," he says petulantly. It only lasts a few seconds before curiosity gets the better of him. "Yes," he concedes, "how did you, uh, fit your reverse-flash suit into that little ring, it is some sort of compressed microtech or . . ." he trails off as the ghost of a smile crosses Wells' face, realizing he's been baited into letting his guard down, talking to Wells like this is any other puzzle, like this is  _normal._

"Actually, forget it," he says, too little too late, "I don't care." He pauses, his incessant need to  _know_  things making his skin prickle. "Maybe a little."

Apparently Wells didn't have any intention of answering his question anyway, and he forges on as though Cisco hadn't spoken. "Ronnie's right," he admits, "I should have accounted for the temporal sheering."

"Glad we're still good for something," Cisco replies bitterly. It's childish, but he doesn't feel like being mature right now. He wants to throw a tantrum, cry, break things.

“I’ve never underestimated your contributions Cisco,” Wells replies, managing to make it sound both hurt and reassuring, like it matters to him what Cisco thinks. Like it matters to him how Cisco feels.

"Or Ronnie," he continues, like an afterthought, then presses quickly on. "As a matter of fact, do you know how many times I wished you were there with me as I rebuilt the accelerator?" He's smiling, teasingly, like he's trying to cajole Cisco out of a snit, like Cisco's just in a bad mood and Wells is trying to make him laugh. "Would have been a lot more fun," he concludes, with a little exhale that sounds like a laugh, and it makes Cisco want to retch.

 _This is fun for you,_ Cisco realizes in disgust.  _You sick fuck, you're **enjoying**  this._

"Yeah, well," Cisco begins, trying to think of a witty retort, "doesn't change the fact that your nifty little . . . time sphere-"

"Oh is that what you're calling it?" Wells asks, smiling like he's amused by the name, by Cisco continuing his little tradition of christening things, unconsciously treating this like another one of their adventures.

"Whatever it's called!" Cisco snaps, "It's gonna blow!"

"Not if you cement the tiles with a cobalt resin that'll prevent degradation in conditions of extreme heat," he says with a tone of finality, brandishing the papers triumphantly. He looks smug, pleased with himself, as he keeps his eyes locked on Cisco.

"Ok," Cisco says, tearing his eyes away as he tries to make his escape as quickly as possible, "fine, we'll try that."

"That's it?" Wells calls after him, challenging and -- is Cisco imagining it? -- a little desperate. "That's all?"

"Well what do you want me to say?" Cisco demands, turning with arms thrown wide. He doesn't know what Wells wants from him anymore, or how to not give it. He doesn't know if he has it in him to deny this man, but he wants to try.

"I don't know Cisco," Wells admits, tossing the papers aside in frustration as he turns to pace the cell. "I thought that if anyone you'd be a little more understanding of my predicament."

His tone is accusatory, as though it's Cisco who has somehow wronged him, and Cisco didn't think he could be any more incredulously outraged but if there's one thing Harrison Wells is good at it's pushing people past what they thought they could do. "I don't belong here!" he insists angrily, leaning against the door as though to advance on Cisco. "These barbaric-" he strikes his palm on the door once, then turns away, like he's run out of steam, "- _times_. It's like living amongst the dead."

"Is that what you told yourself?" Cisco replies. He doesn't really know where the words come from, what hidden well of courage he dredged them out of, but now that he's said them he desperately wants an answer. "When you killed me?"

Immediately Wells turns to look at him, his expression confused but strangely wary. "What?" he asks, eyeing Cisco as though surprised by what he sees. "What did you say?"

"It was an alternate timeline," Cisco explains. "One that Barry reset. I never forgot, it just kept coming back to me."

Wells crosses his arms over his chest, examining Cisco like he's a particularly fascinating puzzle. He looks at Cisco like he's something entirely new, like Wells is seeing him for the very first time. He's too detached though, and Cisco can't stand being looked at like an unexpected result of an unremarkable experiment, so he adds in a detail he'd meant to leave out. "And I can still picture the way you looked at me," he says, trying to add as much bite, as much vitriol, to his voice as he can, "when you called me a son."

Wells closes his eyes then, as though in regret, like it was some stupid thing he said at his high school reunion, and Cisco wants to slap that look off his face. "Then you crushed my heart," he continues, to impress upon Wells the gravity of the situation. "With your fist."

"Cisco," Wells breathes, and Cisco can't quite parse out the look on his face. It looks almost pitying, but there's something else there, something that makes him want to squirm under that piercing, all-seeing gaze. "I'm sorry," he continues, with a peculiar tone to his voice, almost reverent, but that doesn't make any sense.

"Yeah, it sucked," Cisco retorts, determined not to give, not to back away in fear or shame. He tells himself he doesn't want Wells' pity, and he thinks with enough time he might be able to make himself believe it.

"No not for killing you I'm sure I had a good reason," Wells responds quickly, and it's like a needle in the gut, this sharp reminder that this man is an actual sociopath. It's oddly grounding, like a splash of cold water to wake him up, a slap in the face to pull him back to reality, where Wells has done nothing but use him. "I'm sorry for the fact that you're able to retain traces of another timeline," he clarifies, "you're able to see through the vibrations of the universe, it means . . ." he trails off, drawing a sharp breath, like the words take something out of him, like they hurt him. What Cisco wouldn't give for the power to hurt this man, so he steps a little closer.

Wells lets out another sharp exhalation, like a laugh but bitter and cold. "I wasn't sure until just now."

"Sure of what?" Cisco demands, half afraid of the answer, half craving it like nothing before.

Wells is smiling, a pleased little smile out of the corner of his mouth, like he's solved whatever riddle Cisco had unintentionally put before him. "The night the particle accelerator exploded-" he pauses, and good  _God_ Cisco has never wanted to hurt a human being as much as he does now, "-you were affected too."

"What are you talking about?" Cisco scoffs, wondering if this is some kind of trick. "No. I wasn't."

"Don't be afraid Cisco," says Wells, like anything could make him more afraid than the Reverse-Flash himself trying to be comforting. His eyes shine with a strange light, like the lightning that connects him and Barry, like suddenly it's a thing Cisco could share. "A great and . . ." he trails off, rolling his eyes as he smiles to himself, " _honorable_ destiny awaits you now." His eyes lock with Cisco's, and something like panic wells up in Cisco's chest. "I only hope that as you're living your great adventure-"

_No._

"-you remember who gave you that life-"

_Don't say it._

"-and that it was given-"

_Don't you dare say it._

"-out of love."

Cisco searches Wells' face for the lie, some sign of trickery or even mocking. There's nothing though, no trace of insincerity; his face is serious as his eyes bore into Cisco's. It's frightening, that sincerity, perhaps because it might well be the first genuine thing Wells has ever said to him, and Cisco can't face it right now. He does the only thing he can do: he turns around and flees, taping with a little more force than necessary at the screen that will send Wells back into the pipeline with the rest of the evil metahumans.

Cisco isn't like them. Cisco isn't like  _him_. He isn't even like Barry or Ronnie or Dr. Stein, he's just a kid with a head for gizmos and he doesn't know how to be a hero. He knows that the kind of power the particle accelerator bestows creates only two kinds of people -- Flashes and Reverse-Flashes -- and he doesn't know how to be the former and is terrified of becoming the latter. He doesn't want to believe he has to make that choice, doesn't want to believe he has powers, and of all things powers  _given_  to him by Dr. Harrison Wells.

Dr. Wells is evil. How could anything that came from him be anything else?

**Author's Note:**

> who wants me to write the scene again from eobard's perspective?


End file.
